July 29th, 2015

2013, cyd, new

My tweets

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2013, cyd, new

Just so we know what kind of support I'm dealing with.

He hurts my feelings when he talks to me. He asks me to explain what I am feeling and when I do, he says, "Yeah, I don't know what to do with that," or, "That makes no sense, think about it and tell me when you can make sense."

I have to pay my web host. So I looked up how much I had left of my check (it has been paying for groceries and the water bill), and told Doc how much I had left. I asked him if I had enough to pay my web host. He asked how much it was (it's been the same for over a decade, $10/month) and then mentioned we had to pay my doctor in August, so that was so much, and then there was something else, and that was so much. And I stared at him blankly. I can't do math. I literally lack the cognitive ability to do anything more than the most basic of math, I can't even make change, anymore. I reminded him of that. He said he just laid it all out for me. I told him I couldn't do word problems, either. He repeated that he had laid it all out for me. Then he dismissed me.

So, Warped people, if you are reading this, I will pay you as soon as I get my Patreon payment for the month on the 1st. I haven't forgotten you.

Then there was the matter of the chocolate. He brought home two 8-packs of fun sized candy bars. He said they were for me. So when I devoured them over the course of three nights of "Seroquel eating", I didn't feel so bad. Then today, he said he wanted a piece of chocolate and I, giggling, told him it was gone. He got really serious and really harsh really quick. "Look at me!" He demanded. I looked at him and received a lecture about how they weren't all mine and it was very wrong to eat them all and it wasn't funny and did he need to hide chocolate from me like he had when Psycho Bitch was here? And why couldn't I respect anything and how could I be so thoughtless and all this shit, like I had stolen his stash. Then, to spite me, he ate all the ice cream he had left for me. 2/3 of a half gallon. Just to spite me. What the actual fuck?

Then there was another scene over the harvest jars. I have a short one, the contents are too dry to smoke. There's a random jar, the contents are too moist. There's his jar, the contents are just right. So I've been taking from his jar. Note, the three jars sit together on the floor. No names have been written on the jars, and my bathroom is hosting five more fully mature dried plants to be snipped and trimmed, so we are at no danger of running out. But no, it's HIS jar and I'm not to touch it. Even though I am the one who fills it. And re-hydrates it.

And then we get to the "getting up for work". Kelli has told me several times over the years that no matter how much she loved someone, she would not go through what I do every day to get him up. It starts at 5pm. I make fresh coffee and roll him cigarettes. Then I search the house and garage for his coffee cup and wash it. At 5:10, I have to get up or stop what I'm doing and locate his phone to turn off the "last chance" (HA!) alarm.

At 5:30, I present him with coffee, ice water and a Rock Star drink. I wake him up. He mumbles something and rolls over. At 5:45, I wake him again, and get the same mumble, only tinged with irritation now. At 6pm, I get firm, and he gets mean. I tell him to get up, and he growls about having another half an hour, which he doesn't. He needs that half an hour to sit up and clear his head. It takes him 15 minutes before he can stand to even put on his glasses. At this point, he starts dictating what should be on TV. Local news (through the first half of Rachel Maddow) for the weather, even though our meteorologist has a twitter account and tweets the weather before he broadcasts it.

We are now at 6:45pm. He's got half a Rock Star and two cups of coffee in him. He grabs a cigarette and goes to his room to shower. He dresses out here in the living room because all of his clothes are out here, no matter my efforts to put a stop to it. While he is shaving, showering, primping, it is up to me to time check him every ten minutes until around 7:20. Then he comes out in a flurry, trying to get dressed for the commute and gather clothes to change into at work. He gathers up his stuff. I used to gently remind him of things he might have forgotten. I'm not allowed to do that anymore, he says it throws him off. So when he leaves something important here because he wouldn't let me talk, I just laugh now.

By 7:30pm he is on his bike and we are walking down the driveway together, if we are still speaking. Usually he is so mean to me during these couple of hours that I let him go before I go down the driveway and get the mail.

This is the most stressful part of my day. Every day when he leaves, I want to take a shot of vodka just for getting through it again.

The other day we were arguing about it as he tried to set down new rules and guidelines for my behavior and actions during this wake up and get ready time. And I said, "You know, you are an adult. You should be able to get your own self out of bed like I do every morning to make sure the house is clean before you get home, no matter how late I stay up the night before."

Ad he spat the "adult" thing back at me, like I had just called him something totally unreasonable. I mean, he got really got defensive. He sat there muttering to himself for a while after I said that. I went outside because he was creeping me out.

He wakes up pissed off at me because I am the one who has to wake him up. Every night when he leaves, I want to throw a spear down the street after him. It takes me literal hours to calm down. And my work for the night is fucked.

The status quo has got to change. As he insists that I "become more normal", he retreats into his teenage years.

He didn't get last night how making a salad for him was brain-wise, exhausting for me. So many things to remember. Wash all veggies, even the ones you are going to peel. Then each veggie, including the lettuce gets special treatment. It's like I only get so many logic points per day. And cooking for Doc and his peculiarities takes a lot of them. Another time he said, "You're making no sense, I don't see how making a stupid salad can wear you out, that's just ridiculous."

I told him about the Girl Things for Every Girl project I am trying to start, he said, "Fine, just don't bother me with it, I don't want to hear another word about it."

Just so we know what kind of support I'm dealing with.
2013, cyd, new

Every Fucking Day.

Then there are the times that I do all that waking up and shit, and he calls out of work and goes back to sleep. So I have to be quiet. No fast typing, which puts off what I was going to do, which was answer several questions posed to me by the lovely woman writing a play about the mentally ill in the UK. Turns out that when Reagan turned all of the mentally ill out of the hospitals and closed them down in the 80's, Britain did a similar thing with their health coverage and the mentally ill, and the situation, as here, remains dire to this day. I think we can work together quite well.

I'm in no mood for Twitter. Black Lives Matter vs. Cecil the Lion vs. Black Pride (a combination of the first two that I don't quite understand). It's all the same. It's all dreary and full of death and disrespect and doom. And none of it touches me. Insanity Privilege. I let it in or not, as I want to. And I just don't want to anymore.

I'm really bummed out about Doc. I really want him to start treatment with my shrink, but every time I mention it, he goes into having to have an assessment appointment first and then ends the conversation. Great. All well and good. Whatever that means to not going in and getting treated. He's going to run out of Xanax, and won't be able to go back to his doctor because our pharmacy won't fill his doctor's scripts anymore. Plus my shrink could get him on a proper dose of a proper antidepressant instead of Doc self-medicating (wrongly) with expired meds left over from whomever. I think it would make a big difference in his quality of life.

Excuse me, I have to go throttle Teeny. Ok. She has decided to stop picking on Boomer, which is good for Boomer. But she has trained her little eyes on Felix, who is an outside cat, a real scrapper. And he won't fight her. She's too small. So when she bothers him by pouncing on him, or chasing him relentlessly, he just growls and hisses, and does not get why she doesn't get the message. So he runs from her. Usually to me. I am the mission in the desert. I am sanctuary. So Felix is now curled up next to me, and Teeny is being held off at the other end of the room by the water bottle and my careful aim, since she is in front of a book case.

It's always the electronics or the book cases (we have several around the house).

Back to my thorough dissatisfaction with the situation I find myself in. Doc asleep on the couch. Me with my headphones on. Almost 8. There's nothing on until 10, when Mr. Robot comes on. At that point, I will turn the TV on and not care about the volume.

He's having a hard time unwinding from work and going to sleep. Even though he takes sleeping medicine and drinks a cocktail on top of it. He usually stays awake through the initial high of it, playing that stupid fucking game on facebook, and then discovers that he can't fall asleep. Every fucking day. We go through this every fucking day. I'm starting to think Kelli is right. I should not be doing this for him. But I don't have enough faith that he will get up on his own and make it to work on time. He was running late the other day, and man was he a dick to me. Then he says sorry and it's supposed to be ok, when the next time he is running late, he will just be a dick again.

Actually, he's kind of a dick even when he isn't late. It's like he only has a few minutes to impart a lot of knowledge to me, but knows that he can't because I won't retain it all, so he gets mad before he ever gets out of the shower and comes out to get dressed with a harsh attitude and barks orders at me. And yells at me to communicate with him, when, if I say anything he tells me to shut up because he is thinking about something else, no he just lost it, thank you Cyd.

Every Fucking Day.